December 2, 2008

The Passion

Upon a visit to the Prado. August 2003.

You -
who lived insensibly
and loved insanely;
you -
who made God
in man's own image
& gave us images
to pray to
were declared
heathens.

You -
who lived by vision,
lived invisibly
and died
in penury,
disgraced,
alone.

You starved
& slept on naked earth
& were accused
of vulgar sensualism.

You wept
turpentine tears
& bled
in every color
of the
imagination,
to give birth to
Beauty
in great pain.

You fought,
you lost,
you loved,
you lost,
you gambled
& you lost,
& lost again,
& then were
lost entirely,
and yet,
you LIVED. Oh, how you lived!

And now,
I read between
your strokes
the words -
"Forgive them, Muse,
they know not
what we do."

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